THE END OF A LONG DAY
This is he seventeenth in a series of articles about a trip to the interesting country of Turkey.
THE END OF A LONG DAY
By Charles N. Stevens
Getting away late at 3:15, we continue down the highway towards Konya, one of the largest cities in Turkey, which is still 70 kilometers away. The blue-gray shadows on the snow begin to lengthen as the afternoon slips by. We drive into a long, narrow winding valley filled with snow-covered agricultural fields, orchards, and poplar windbreaks. At the far end, the valley narrows into a gap. A stream bordered by naked alders flows swiftly through soft rounded pillows of snow. Several hunters walk along the road with their guns.
Closer to Konya we pass a crumbling caravansary built of yellowish tan stone blocks. Most of the them had been built during the early Middle Ages as stopping places for the camel caravans along the Silk Road, the path of which our highway follows. The land changes as we wind up into forests of short white pines and oaks then dip down into valleys where only widely spaced junipers and cypress grow. We streak by another caravansary, its tumbling blocks half-hidden by snow. The hills are covered with regular rows of a pine tree reforestation project then by a dam holding back a frozen reservoir. Primitive mud-brick houses squat here and there on the plain. The bare hills are encased in snow, the snow crystals still sparkling in the late sun.
At a summit in the low hills, we look down on a large plain where Konya lies under a thick layer of gray smoke and haze. Finally, through the foggy curtain, we can make out the apartment houses, mosques and steaming industry of Konya. Snow clings to all the roofs and a portion of the mosque domes. It appears to be a nice-looking city caught in the vice of winter. Konya is the center of agriculture for the high plains. Moslem women are well covered in this part of Turkey. A trolley system, the first I have seen in Turkey, serves the city, several of the sleek red and cream trolleys speeding by on the rails near us. We are told that the people of Konya do not like tourists because they wear shorts and other skimpy clothing and bring in alien ideas.
The sky darkens as we roll eastward out of Konya. We head out into a dusky, snowy wilderness without any lights in sight except for the occasional headlights of trucks or buses. As we speed through the frozen night, feathery ice patterns creep across the bus windows. If we scrape the windows with our fingernails, crystals are under them.
Suddenly, in a particularly dark area, our bus begins to falter again. It slows to only 18 kph, then 15 then 9 as I nervously watch the digital read-out on the speedometer. The bus driver has no idea what the problem is. We crawl along the lonely road, an occasional bus or truck roaring past us. The bus continues to creep along, none of us knowing whether the engine will give up altogether or not. Since the road embankments are steep and slippery with snow and ice, there is no place to pull off the pavement in case we stop. Inwardly we begin to curse the bus and especially the driver for getting us into this predicament. We play with visions of being stranded and helpless in the dark, arctic-like night, the temperature outside far below freezing. I think about how we’ll cope until we’re rescued, which might be hours in this isolated, snowy desert. We have no food or blankets, only our warm clothing. If the engine stops, there will be no heat. I think about the chances of an overloaded truck with a sleepy driver plowing into the back of us.
Even though the intrepid engine struggles in the frigid night, it does not quit. As we inch over a rise in the road, we see several stationary lights up ahead, possibly the lights of a remote service station. The ailing bus slowly makes its way toward the lights, all of us driving vicariously, pressing our feet firmly down on an imagined throttle. After what seems like miles of tension and hoping, the sluggish bus reaches the lights. With a levity born out of relief we all joke with each other while the bus limps into the service station and restaurant complex, its tires cracking noisily on the hard ice and refrozen slush.
Once again, the floorboards come up as the puzzled bus driver and a mechanic
peer down into the space where the errant engine, somehow, still clings to life. We all get off the bus, walking gingerly over the ice and packed snow to the isolated toilet facilities. I nearly gag on the stench of the frozen, unsanitary place.
We all walk into the comparative warmth of the restaurant which is heated by a single wood stove at the far end. The Turks, all men, inside stare at us as if we had just emerged from a spaceship which had landed silently on the snow. We gather around the blessed heat of the stove as several Turkish men who are sitting there politely give up their seats to the women. The few restaurant patrons soon get used to us and resume eating and talking to each other. At one end of the single-room restaurant a long buffet steams next to glass refrigerated cases containing soft drinks, milk, yogurt, and fresh meat. At the other end, just past the wood stove, a large clock with Arabic script done in gold and silver glitter hangs on the wall. Colored pictures of farm equipment and automotive parts clutter another windowless wall. A row of booths runs along a wall of windows where Turkish men eat. They place meat and vegetables on flat bread, then double it over to eat it. Fantastic ice patterns feather the large windows above the booths.
The restaurant proprietor, a tall, kindly young man with a large moustache brings out a tray of tea in glasses along with little spoons and sugar cubes, offering a glass to each of us. We savor the steaming brew. After nearly a half hour, the bus driver returns with a broad smile, and gestures to us that everything is okay now. Hesitantly, we leave the cheery warmth of the restaurant, saying goodbye to the polite man who had served us the tea as he holds the door open for us. We walk cautiously over the ice, hoping not to slip.
Once again, we roll out into the night. The rumor is that the diesel fuel had gelled in the low temperatures and would not feed into the engine properly. Presumably the problem had been corrected. With renewed hope, we move on. We skirt the city of Aksaray then turn to our right at a narrow road leading out to what looks like a dark nowhere. We’re assured that the road leads to Nevsehir where we’ll spend several days. As we speed over the road, our headlights probing the ink-black night, the bus driver and the guide talk to each other nervously about a leaky water cap. Inside the bus, steam wisps from around the cap, filling the bus with the rubbery smell of a hot radiator. Yet again we visit a service station where they replace the water.
Finally, and far behind schedule, we reach our hotel, the Otel Altinoz, a cold four-star hotel. With the radiators in our room barely tepid to the touch, our room is icy. Wearily we gather downstairs for a late supper—”wedding soup”, salad, Turkish meat loaf with rice and a dessert of three thick cookies saturated in syrup.
Dolores and I are exhausted and above all, cold. We both slip into one of narrow twin bed, sharing our body heat to keep warm.
MONTEREY PARK AUTHOR PUBLISHES 4th BOOK – Seeking More of the Sky: Growing Up in the 1930’s:
Charles “Norm” Stevens, a 49 year resident of Monterey Park has recently published his 4th book: Seeking More of the Sky: Growing Up in the 1930’s. This is the story of a young boy growing up in Inglewood, California in the l930’s. This was a time during the depression when unemployment was affecting many and the banks were closed, while the clouds of war were gathering in Europe. But he was lucky enough to be raised in a loving family, the power of that love reflected throughout his stories.
Stevens is the author of three previous books about his experiences during WWII:
An Innocent at Polebrook: A Memoir of an 8th Air Force Bombardier (Story of his 34 bombing missions from his base at Polebrook, England over Germany and France)
The Innocent Cadet: Becoming A World War II Bombardier (A prequel to the first, telling of his training in the U.S. before going overseas into combat.)
Back from Combat: A WWII Bombardier Faces His Military Future from Combat: (This book details the time from when he returned from combat in England until the end of the war.)
He is known to the readers of The Citizen’s Voice as the author of Travel Log Articles including “Cruising the Rhine and Mosel”,” Best of the West”, “In Search of Snow” , “From Paris to Normandy on the Seine”, and “Exploring New York”. He is retired, having taught for 32 years, primarily in the Montebello Unified School District.
Those interested in purchasing an autographed copy of any of his books, may contact the author at 323-721-8230 or Normstevens24@gmail.com.
